


Change of Heart

by peacehopeandrats



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-23 22:24:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14942465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacehopeandrats/pseuds/peacehopeandrats
Summary: Moe returns home after realizing Belle wants to stay with Rumple.andMoe returns home after giving Belle away at her wedding.This was an assignment that I used OUAT for.Assignment: Pick a mother or father and write a description of their house from their point of view. Do it first when their daughter has married someone the parent hates, then do it again when the daughter has married someone the parent loves. I couldn't come up with any better parent/child relationship more suited to this task than Belle and Moe.





	Change of Heart

Standing on the walk, Moe stared at his home. It looked dark and empty and the bushes bordering the property seemed to be pushing him back, their long fingers twining into an impenetrable wall that warned him to stay away at all costs. There had been no physical change to the house itself in the time he had been gone and yet it felt as if someone had come and darkened the paint on every surface except the white railing, which seemed to sneer at him devilishly, daring him to step up so it could chomp down on him with pointed wooden teeth.

When he did make the journey to the front door, it squealed in pain as it opened, reminding him yet again that the hinges needed oiling. He turned and stared at them, examining them for some unknown substance, though he simply knew whatever it was should be black, thick, and gritty. He ran his hand over the cool metal and examined his fingers, which came away almost clean. The lack of grime was ridiculously disappointing and put a weight inside of him that he could not lift away.

Moe reached for the dead bolt as if it would bite him, the debate over its use ricocheting between his heart and his head until he couldn't stand the indecision and spun on his heel to flick on the light instead. Maybe someone would come to the house, maybe they wouldn't, but if they did, he would let them in without question. His house would be their sanctuary, if it were needed. 

The old bulb overhead gave off a yellow brilliance that blanketed the interior with a heatless fire. Though it failed at combustion it claimed everything it touched at the same time. When he dropped his keys to the darkly stained table, they crashed against the framed image of his daughter, whose sweet smile was now erased by the reflection of the light overhead. Unable to see her mutilated in this way, his hand jerked to turn the frame's direction, thwarting the light's attempts at disfigurement. 

Shuffling to the kitchen, Moe was certain that his steps echoed off every pot that hung above the central island. The noise pinged and plonked at him like tiny stones being flung from every direction. The refrigerator hissed as he opened it, the cold slapping his face with a sharp intensity that rushed to his core. One beer stood alone on a shelf that was devoid of all else and he snatched it up in desperation.

The silent television called to him from the other room, beckoning like a siren for him to become lost in its depths of fantasy. Mindlessly he drifted to the red armchair with it's frayed red strings that hung like blood dripping from open wounds. After clicking on the TV, his hand pressed hard against a worn patch of cloth, as if trying to prevent any more spillage from the ragged gash underneath.

While a stranger babbled on about dish soap, Moe closed his eyes and took in a breath. The house that had once smelled like flowers, now had only the faintest whiff of something green about it, and that a remnant of his work which had traveled in with him on his clothes. The warm floral scent that once filled these rooms had been pulled away and was now wandering through the world on its own. Would a building across town find that rosy sweetness? Would it suck it in to its depths, consume it, and keep it forever, or would it find the perfume too strong and blow it back out in a swirl of angry fog?

Shivering at the thought, the man reached for a blanket folded neatly on the couch and wrapped himself tightly in its softness. Echoes of false lives reverberated out of the television and explored the empty house as Moe drifted off into a land of unknown futures and uncertainty.

****

Standing on the walk, Moe stared at his home. Though he knew it was empty, the bushes that boarded his property seemed to reach out to him, branches twining in an embrace that beckoned him to enter and be enveloped in their rich life. Though he knew the house hadn't physically been changed, it's color felt warmer somehow, the contrasting white rail that lined the porch smiled invitingly at him.

When he did make the journey to the front door, it squealed with the delight of being opened, reminding him that he still had to oil the hinges. He turned and examined them, tenderly caressing each as he checked for flaws, though he was certain he would find none. Detecting no bend in the metal, relief bubbled up inside of him. He would have hated to find a fault in the hinges themselves. Their uniqueness provided a certain charm to the house that he was not willing to part with.

Moe's eyes traveled to the dead bolt, contemplating its use for a moment before he sadly reached up to slide it into the locked position. He knew no one would be following him through the doorway tonight and that realization made him both happy and lonely all at once. His hand trailed from the lock to the light switch, flicking it on.

The old bulb overhead gave off a soft glow, bringing warmth to the room without heating it, blanketing everything it touched in the memory of comfort. When he dropped his keys to the mahogany finished table, they tapped against the framed image of his daughter, whose sweet smile was barely visible through the reflection of the light overhead. Wishing to see her more clearly, he guided the frame to a position where the light could caress her cheeks without hiding her beautiful smile.

Crossing into the kitchen, Moe was certain that his steps echoed off of every pot that hung over the central island. The dangling objects seemed to be trying to recreate the laughter that once filled the space, their song could almost be mistaken for wind chimes if he pretended hard enough. When he opened the refrigerator light cascaded over him and the coolness enveloped him in a ghostly embrace. A single beer sat alone on a shelf above the remnants of last night's dinner and he tenderly removed it from his solitude.

The silent television called to him from the other room, promising sound if not companionship. Mindlessly he drifted into its path and fell into the well worn armchair. He glanced at the old, wine colored threads and their fraying edges, running his palm over the old scars made from so many years of loving use. After clicking on the TV, his hand rested there as if it could physically cling to the past the way it held threads in their place.

As a stranger rambled on about dish soap, Moe closed his eyes and took in a breath. The house that had once smelled like flowers, now had only the faintest whiff of something green about it, and that a remnant of his work which had traveled in with him on his clothes. The warm floral scent had floated away, faded in a breeze that had come and gone in the blink of an eye. Would a building across town welcome its rosy sweetness? Would it open itself to the scent and gently pull it in to its heart to keep it safe forever, or would it shelter the fragrance for a while before releasing it again?

Calming himself with the thought, the man reached for a photo album and turned through it, gazing on the happy images there and imagining the new ones that would soon fill the blank pages at the back.


End file.
